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He could see it was a constant battle. Instinct and discomfort—he wasn’t using enough force for this to count as pain—closed her legs, but obedience and submission parted them a moment later.
Five minutes of steady flogging, and she was half closing her legs after each strike. Soft skin was flushed pink, a few patches a deeper shade of magenta.
“Nice and wide now, darling.” The endearment slipped out, and it felt both odd and familiar. She was the only one he’d ever called that.
She let out a little whimper, but widened her legs. Her feet rolled out, balanced on their edges, her cute toes curled.
It looked uncomfortable, and he was poised, ready to correct her and force her back into position if she brought her feet together. He couldn’t let her take a butterfly position with the soles of her feet together and tucked up near her ass, because ankles were delicate, and he didn’t want her ankles anywhere near her pussy while he whipped it.
“What color are you?”
“Green.” She breathed the word, didn’t open her eyes.
Benson looked away from her, reminding himself that he couldn’t really trust her answers.
“Your pussy is warmed up.” He kept the flogging going, working the very top of her thighs, so close to her pussy that he could see her vaginal and pelvic muscles contract in reaction. “You’ll feel it in your clit even if the flogger doesn’t make direct contact.”
Needing to touch her, Benson ran his palm up and down her thighs, enjoying the temperature variation along the recently abused flesh.
“This is meant to hurt, but if you feel any sharp pain, particularly in isolated spots, you say ‘yellow’.”
“Yes, Master Benson.”
“It’s a nice soft flogger. It should be a thuddy pain.” ‘Thuddy’ might not technically be a word, but it was definitely in the submissive lexicon.
“I’m green, Sir.”
Benson reached down and stroked her pussy with two fingers, one on each labia. She arched up into his hand, sighing as she did.
He patted her pussy, almost hard enough to be a spank. She made a mewling noise of need.
His hesitation melted away. She needed this. He needed to do this.
Benson raised the flogger.
He did a practice figure eight in the open space between her knees, then shifted forward and let the flogger tails strike her cunt.
Mal let out a long, low moan, her shoulders briefly rising off the platform as her back arched up, her body braced on her ass and the back of her head.
The upright figure eight motion of the flogger, controlled by his wrist, resulted in perfectly timed downstrokes hitting her pussy.
Again and again he flogged her sex, varying the positioning and intensity by shifting his weight from his front to back foot, which shifted his upper body and hand in relation to her.
With weight on his front foot, he was closer to the end of the platform and the flogger struck her mons, the tip of each strand landing on her belly. When he shifted back, he got more of her labia.
She took it beautifully, her moans and panting cries filling the room, a melody to the baseline beat of the flogger striking her sex. Her legs trembled and twitched, but she kept her thighs spread. It was as if she locked her legs into place.
He could have done that, of course. He could have strapped her down and tied her until she couldn’t move, couldn’t close her legs, even if pain and instinct took control of her body.
He wouldn’t do that. With Mal, he needed every piece of information he could get from her body language.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Again and again he whipped her pussy. It was bright pink now, the labia parted more than they had been a moment ago. He loved the physiological responses of a woman’s body. Loved that as she grew more aroused, her pussy lips plumped.
In this case, it might be as much in response to the flogging as from arousal, but either way her plump labia were parted, her abused clit peeking out. The glossy little nub caught the overhead lights.
His cock twitched, rock hard within his leathers.
